


Comfort

by Ellepige



Series: Bloodborne Ficlets [3]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Dry Humping, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Misogyny, References to Drugs, Sad, agalmatophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 23:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellepige/pseuds/Ellepige
Summary: Back in the Dream, an exhausted hunter yearns for the slightest bit of comfort.





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!  
> I'm back at it again, as in the two stories before, the non-canon characters mentioned belong to a close friend of mine and me. I had a hard time tagging this appropriately, if you feel like I missed something, please feel free to tell me!

I wake to the smell of moonflowers and milkweed. The ground beneath me is damp, it feels cold as I press my forehead against the pale green grass and groan, try to shake off the memory of pain. The sound of the trigger. I can still feel the pressure of the gun's muzzle against my temple, slightly above my right ear. I suppose my hair still reeks of gunpowder.  
Getting up isn't as hard as I imagined it would be, my clothes are crumpled, but there are no traces of blood, no gashes in the fabric to mark where beast claws had cut through it. The belt is still there, reminds me of this fact with steady, throbbing pain that creeps up to my crotch and down to my knee. I check the pistol, find that I've used my last bullet. Of course I did.  
Nausea creeps up as I start to remember the ugly details.

The Dream is peaceful. A pale moon illuminates the garden, seemingly forever caught in the phase of full moon, never waxing nor waning. The little messengers greet me as I strut past them, but I have no time to wonder what their howls and gurgles mean. I don't care, if I'm perfectly honest. They seem to have a fondness for small trinkets, pieces of ribbons or silken miniature tophats that once might have belonged to a doll and sometimes I bring them this worthless bibelot. It calms them and I do feel some compassion towards their restlessness. I'm restless, too, not only during the nights of the hunt.

There are things that calm me, at least for a while. Sedatives, hunting, the good yharnamite blood, even if it has been bottled up for weeks and has the consistency of half-dried glue. I try to keep my hands off these substances, I know what they cause, but from time to time, I fail to control my base urges. I've always been like that, always prone to overdosing, overindulging. Ianus claimed that excess would be my downfall one day, yet as I feel the curse of the good blood change me and the world around me, I doubt his claim. Isn't it my sense of duty that doomed me?  
I'd been part of the Church's rituals, I've made due with what little I could harvest off those who lost their humanity after I ran, but ultimately, even my desertion didn't change who I was. A faithful hunter. Maybe the worst, maybe a disgrace for my brothers, but up to this day, I'm a hunter. 

I pry open one of the vials and bring the broken glass to my lips. It stinks, spirit of wine mixed with decay, but I drink it in one pull and force it down, even though I retch as I do so. My eyes water as the numbing, warming sensation starts to run through my body. Is this how a child feels in its mother's womb? Sometimes I think I can remember, but I can't. It's foolish to believe this when you're alone in this world. The glass clinks as it hits the ground, I don't bother, the Doll will take care of it, as she always does. I don't like her very much, her collected, distanced attitude unnerves me, but I suppose she's part of this cursed place as much as the senile old man in the wheelchair is. That doesn't mean I trust any of them.

She is still in her favorite place when I stumble along the small, meandering path. Well, I can't be sure if it's her favourite spot, if she even has preferences or things she holds dear. Granted, she calls me her dear hunter, but I can't tell if it is something she says because she's made to be sweet and caring or if she actually means it. Pale fingers with carefully designed ball joints are raised as the Doll waves at me. Her head is slightly tilted, makes me think of the canary my grandmother used to keep, a delightful little thing that sang to entertain guests. She looks almost as fragile as a bird, the sound she makes as I push her back against the crumbling wall is nothing but a breathless chirp. Such a lovely little songbird.  
Her skirts smell of dried roses and lavender, of clay and rain and dusty bookshelves, her tighs are as pale and milky white as the lace of the bloomers I strip off of them until the light undergarnmet hangs crumpled around her left ankle. I feel the Doll's fingers slide over the arms of my jacket, trembling and unsure, but she is made to love and care, not to push anyone away, even if it was to protect herself. This thing isn't made for self-preservation, it's constructed to serve and be used. She's been made with great care, with attention to detail, I can tell from the elegant arch of her brow, from the precisely sculpted wrinkles around her mouth, indicating that the person she was formed to resemble used to smile and scowl. Maybe this is why her impassive expression looks so weird on her. 

The Doll looks lovely on her bed of white flowers and moss, inviting even, my attention is caught by the contrast of her porcelain skin and the dark fabric of her dress. She doesn't move to cover herself, just stares at me with her glass eyes and waits, her hands neatly resting against the damp ground. I wish she'd resist, but I know she isn't able to, maybe doesn't even feel like this violates her in any way. I let go of her to unbuckle my belt and jank down my breeches, then I reach out for her knee and push it aside, make her spread before me. Even here she is made with impressive dilligence, I had expected nothing but plain porcelain, but it is molded to look like the sex of an actual woman, a completely hairless vulva, the labiae slightly tinted in the same color the Doll's lips are, rosy red that promises molten heat beneath. I run my fingers along the cold, rigid folds, as if I could tease them open, but of course, the artificial body doesn't behave like a human would. Still, the Doll gasps, a parody of real arousal. It's disgusting, but I need it and so I mount her, climb atop of this fake monstrosity and start to desperately grind against the cool surface. There's no hole to penetrate, no warmth or wetness to ease the glide. She doesn't move, just lets me continue and I can't look at her abhorrent features, so I stare at her flat, barren belly, at the veins painted on the material, at my stiff, useless cock that is nestled between her unyielding skin and my own. For once, I'm glad that I don't need much to reach climax.  
I shudder as I soil her body and dress.

"Good Hunter," she whispers. "I'm glad I can be of aid."  
"Shut up," I want to bark, but it sounds more like begging. I feel dirty, try to clean myself with my bare hands while I hastily redress. The Doll has fallen silent, catering to my whishes as she always does and I wonder if I'd feel better if she yelled at me or clawed at my face while I abused her. Would it be easier on me if he cried? Maybe I would feel less like crying myself then. The heat the good blood has caused begins to fade and I feel cold, shiver even in my thick, padded clothes. It's time for another hunt.

As I shoulder my saw cleaver, I hope I don't have to return again.


End file.
